I'll confess. I was a dedicated vegetarian for years when I got pregnant with my first. Ded-i-cat-ed. No eating poor little murdered animals, nope. Tofu. Veggie burgers. If I got crazy, maybe, mayyybbbee a shrimp or two. If they'd lived long lives, died in their sleep- those kinds of shrimp. Plentiful on the Gulf Coast.
Ok. So, I started to have hamburger dreams. Dreams drenched in animal fats and charbroiled smells. Big and juicy and sinful. Man. And my doctor said maybe it was my body's way of saying I needed the protein.
I asked her to clarify that. Was she ordering me to eat a hamburger? Did my unborn child's life depend on it? When she looked puzzled and said no, I asked a bit more insistently, and she got the hint. She wrote me a prescription. A cheeseburger a week.
I still remember that drive to the McDonalds...
I fell on that thing like a hungry wolf, and three kids and eight carnivorous years later, I haven't been able to go back.
But it's still wrong. I know that. I just give Greenpeace a little something more each year and pass the ketchup.
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